I remember the moment when I was about to be handed the keys to my first houseboat rental. It was the eighties, we were out of college, and I had brought 20 of my best friends to Herman and Helen’s Marina, on the Sacramento–San Joaquin Delta, in Northern California. The boat in question was 40 feet long, ten feet wide, and, aesthetically speaking, little more than a floating tin shack. Even though I had confirmed the reservation twice, I imagined some last-minute snag. I was sure the deckhand would notice that all we had brought for the weekend was beer or that we had twice as many people as the boat was designed to sleep. But my worry went deeper than that. With all the tort lawyers and insurance adjusters out there, it just didn’t seem realistic that someone would allow a 25-year-old with no demonstrable seamanship skills to motor off into the distance with a boat this large.

houseboating

The grizzled deckhand, who had a nose the size and color of a rutabaga thanks to the twin ravages of sun and drink, did give me the keys. Once under way, I instantly got us lost in the 1,000-plus-mile canal maze of the delta. But I was also deliriously happy at the helm of such a vessel. Even now, I have no trouble reconciling how the boat looked—with its corrugated-tin exterior, Plexiglas windows, and fake-brick linoleum floor—with how it made me feel. I was in love with that boat—the Pelican—because it made me feel like a ship’s captain in the same charitable way that the first woman to yield to my fumblings made me feel like a man.

Of course, my understanding of what a captain might act like was drawn entirely from the movie Jaws and some other pop-cultural tidbits. While at the helm, I chomped on a cigar, squinted like Popeye, and, most unnervingly to my friends, loudly hummed Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

Not surprisingly, I was dangerously unskilled. That first weekend, I managed to get the boat stuck on shore at a 15-degree angle. (Who knew the delta was tidal?) Like Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny, I plowed over my own anchor line, wrapping it around the prop so tightly that I had to order one of my friends down into the dark water with a steak knife in his teeth to cut us free. I had minor collisions with a sailboat, an island, and a dock. I also got a fishhook sunk so far into the flesh between my thumb and forefinger that it had to be pushed through and de-barbed before it could be removed.

Looking back, I believe it was because of these minor disasters, not despite them, that my group of friends and I were so taken with the experience. For the next five years, a summer houseboating trip—usually a late June or early July weekend—became a tradition. Then we all got busy during the dot-com boom in the mid-nineties and took a break.

Some of us got rich and some of us didn’t, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the tech bust brought us back to our annual houseboating trips. As a generation, we were all swerving back toward our first principles—like community and friendship—in the same way that the tech writers were dusting off their half-finished novels.

So it was that in the summer of 2000 we met on Lake Don Pedro, a rambling reservoir in the foothills west of Yosemite Valley. We were pleased to find that, during our absence, the houseboats had gotten plush. What had once looked like a crappy RV bolted to pontoons now looked like a supernice RV with an actual hull. These boats had stereo systems, televisions with VCRs, wet bars, and trash compactors. They were also bigger: The one we rented that year was 59 feet long; the next year it was a 65-footer.

Last summer, I celebrated my 40th birthday on board the Millennium, the nicest boat in the rental fleet at Lake Don Pedro’s Moccasin Point Marina. The Millennium is 70 feet long and 16 feet wide. Its two floors, with four private rooms, beds to sleep a dozen people, and two bathrooms, give it nearly 2,000 square feet of living space—more than my house. It comes with a satellite dish, two televisions, an eight-person hot tub, a gas grill, a dishwasher, and a water slide.

Sadly, my captaining skills, which had slowly improved in the late eighties and early nineties, have been dramatically outpaced by the increasing size and complexity of the boats. I counted more than five dozen switches on the control panel of the Millennium, operating everything from the generator to the running lights. Maneuvering this grand vessel—lumbering under the weight of beer, gasoline, salty snack foods, and whole sides of beef ready to barbecue—between generously spaced bridge pilings felt practically death-defying.

Because we’ve gotten used to upgrading each year, a few of us have our eye on Lake Powell. There’s a houseboat available there called the Odyssey that is 75 feet long, with two gas barbecues, a 17-bottle wine cooler, and a fireplace. I visit the Web site once a day to marvel at its picture. I guess as long as the houseboat-rental industry continues to be willing to give me the keys to bigger, nicer boats, I will continue to drive them off into the sunset.

Acccess & Resources
Herman and Helen’s Marina, Sacramento–San Joaquin Delta, California: Rent a houseboat ranging from a 35-footer that sleeps six ($518–$895 per weekend) to a 56-footer with a hot tub, fireplace, dishwasher, TV, and stereo ($2,125–$3,495). 800-676-4841,

Moccasin Point Marina, Lake Don Pedro, California: This 13,000-acre lake has several branches, which makes finding a private spot possible most weekends. Rent the top-of-the-line 70-foot Millennium ($3,395–$4,995 per weekend), or a boat ranging from 56 feet to 65 feet for $1,195–$2,695. 800-255-5561,

Lake Powell Resorts & Marinas, Arizona: At 75 feet, the Odyssey is one of the nicest boats in the country ($8,897 per week). And Lake Powell has some 2,000 miles of shoreline, so you can usually snag your own sandy beach or hidden cove. 888-486-4665,

The post Home on the Waves appeared first on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø Online.

Grab your shades, wax your board, and check out our tropical—paradise smackdown, in which we scour the Aloha State’s sweetest shorelines, lushest mountains, coolest adventures, choicest chow, and hippest nightlife—then we let you decide which island is the big kahuna of beach-bound delight.


By Amy Linn


By Kent Black


By Ethan Watters


By Joe Kane


By Alex Heard


By Daniel Duane

Getting There: Major carriers offer nonstop flights from Los Angeles and San Francisco to Honolulu, Oahu, Kahului, Maui, and Lihue, Kauai—home to Hawaii’s largest airports—for sometimes as low as $370 round-trip. Hawaiian (800-367-5320, ) and Aloha (800-367-5250, ) airlines serve many smaller cities along the West Coast—including Portland, Seattle, Oakland, Orange County, and San Diego—and fly nonstop routes to the Honolulu, Kahului, and Big Island’s Kona airport, starting at about $400. Once you’re there, Island Air (800-323-3345, ) offers shuttle service between the six major islands, from $86 one way.

Resources: Visit for a photographic catalog of many of the islands’ best beaches; check out , the Web site of Hawaii’s tourism board. For the best maps, pick up a copy of Atlas of Hawaii (University of Hawaii Press, $50).

Wild Thing

Give in to temptation and go feral

SHORTLY AFTER LANDING IN KAUAI—the island air like a balm, the route north flanked by soft beaches, the impossibly green mountains poking through the mist—I can’t help but notice all the chickens crossing the road. Cattle egrets, red-footed boobies, and a lot of surfer dudes, I expected. But chickens?

“They’re everywhere, man,” says the smoothie maker at Banana Joe’s Fruit Stand, near Kilauea, as he hands over a to-die-for blend of locally grown papayas, bananas, and pineapples. “Chickens, goats, cows, pigs—they all went wild here.”

What he didn’t add was this: “Everything does.” It’s Kauai’s mojo, it’s the cosmic undertow, it’s the bizarre unseen force here that somehow invades your synapses and returns you to a state of primordial bliss. Centuries ago, Polynesians introduced moa (chickens) to the Garden Island, as Kauai is called, and now the cluckers are everywhere, bold and cocky in the sheer delight of shedding their domesticity.

For me, the shedding takes about a day. By the time I wake up to aloha music in the sweet oceanfront condo at the Hanalei Colony Resort, in Haena—just up the road from Hanalei, the north shore’s epicenter of surfing, biking, kayaking, coffeehouses, and barefoot locals—I’ve already lost it.

How else to explain the sudden urge to get in a helicopter, when in normal life I can barely sit on a swing without Dramamine?

“Loook at zee waterfalls!” croons Maurice, the Brazilian-born chopper pilot for Heli USA, after liftoff from the tiny Princeville airport, a few miles east of Hanalei. “Zo many, you can’t count!” We buzz deep into the untouched interior—about 90 percent of Kauai is inaccessible by road—where clouds snag on volcanic cliffs and rivers spout spontaneously above the rainforest.

We ride the spine of Mount Waialeale, one of the soggiest places on the planet, which divides the island’s arid west from its moist, lush north. We hover over the Alakai Swamp, a rainforest that’s home to wild boar and some of the world’s rarest plants. We swoop into 12-mile-long, 3,567-foot-deep Waimea Canyon (the “Grand Canyon of the Pacific”), and then head north to the sublime Na Pali Coast. Jungly 3,000-foot spires rise like buttresses on an earthly cathedral, and the 11-mile Kalalau Trail—famed for its Pacific views—hugs the cliffs above the pounding surf. Nothing could be mo’ betta—until it is. A rainbow circles us: not just an arch but an entire, brilliant ring of color. Is this even possible?

On Kauai, the answer is yes—and then some. It’s the oldest of Hawaii’s main islands (dating back about six million years), so crashing waves have had time to create more than 50 miles of beaches—more sand per mile of coastline than on any island in the state. And with less than half as many visitors as Maui and none of the massive condo clots, traffic jams, and high-rises, a low-crowd shoreline is a fact of life.

I drive to Secret Beach, a lovely half-mile-long haven of white sand near the Kilauea Lighthouse, and Anini Beach, where the exposed reef draws summer snorkelers. I check out Hanalei Bay, a rapturous crescent of coastline framed by the cliffs of Mount Makana. I swim at Tunnels Beach and Kee Beach, and each new strand tempts me to explore another. There’s no question that this is as good as Hawaii gets.

Even when it rains.

On a stormy north-shore day, I take the coast road to the sunny south, music blaring from the radio like the soundtrack to the greatest movie I’ve ever seen—which happens to be my life at the moment. In bustling, resort-filled Poipu, I snorkel with sea turtles at Hoai Beach, then it’s onward to the 1920s-era Waimea Plantation Cottages, a banyan-treed beachfront oasis in the tiny outpost of Waimea. It’s not easy to leave after a lomi lomi massage at the resort’s spa, a mai tai at its brewpub (to the tunes of Ambrose, the seventy-something ukulele player), and an ono taco at the Shrimp Station, in town, but there’s more exploring to be done.

A long, jolting drive down a rutted road brings me to Polihale Beach, 15 spectacular miles of sand on the far western edge of the Na Pali cliffs, with only ten other people in sight. When I park near the dunes, I hear what sounds like a goat bleating beyond the vast surrounding sugarcane fields, which can’t be right—there’s no farm in sight. And then I remember: It’s wild.

Access & Resources
Hole Up: Hanalei Colony Resort’s spacious condo living, on the North Shore, is the closest lodging to the Na Pali Coast. It’s totally unplugged (no TV or phone) and right on the beach. Two-bedroom condos from $210; 808-826-6235, » Whaler’s Cove, in Poipu, offers oceanfront luxury with its glass, marble, and private-terrace condos. Hot tubs and full kitchens (complete with blenders) round out the swank. Doubles from $349; 800-225-2683, » The gorgeously restored 1920s-era Waimea Plantation Cottages sit amid banyan trees and coco palms on a black-sand beach on Kauai’s remote western side. Hawaiian-style massages ($80 and up; 808-338-2240, ) at the on-site spa are amazing. Doubles from $195; 800-992-4632,

Dine: For a quick and delicious breakfast, try the Hanalei Wake-Up Cafe, the north-coast locals’ hole-in-the-wall favorite. It closes at 11 a.m. so employees can go surfing. 808-826-5551 » Sit under the thatched veranda at Hanalei Bay Resort’s Bali Hai restaurant, overlooking the water and Mount Makana. 808-826-6522, » When you’re ready to splurge, the torchlit, tiki-chic Plantation Gardens, in the Kiahuna Plantation Resort, in Poipu, is famous for dishes made with locally grown produce. 808-742-2216,

Get Out: Hike the steep and strenuous, sometimes muddy, and always gorgeous Kalalau Trail, on the Na Pali Coast. Camping permits are available from the Division of State Parks. 808-274-3444, » Rent a kayak or take a guided tour of Hanalei Bay with Kayak Kauai, in Hanalei. From $28; 800-437-3507, » Head out on horseback across 400-acre Silver Falls Ranch, in Kilauea, to a waterfall pool where you can take a dip and eat a picnic lunch. $100; 808-828-6718, » On the south shore, swim and lounge at Mahaulepu Beach, three miles east of the Hyatt Regency in Poipu. The draw? Two miles of unspoiled dunes and golden sand.

Shop: Check out Aunty Lilikoi’s award-winning passion-fruit sauces in Waimea. 866-545-4564,

Hot Spot

With volcanic rivers of free-flowing lava, this island’s on fire

Big Island

Kilauea Volcano, on the Big Island’s southeast coast, active since 1983

MY FIRST THOUGHT UPON SEEING the torch-bearing shapes of Ka huakai o ka po (“Night Marchers”)—ghosts of past Hawaiian warriors—was that they were hallucinations caused by staring too long at the 2,000-degree flow of fiery red lava from the Puu Oo vent, on Kilauea. I’d driven to the end of Chain of Craters Road and hiked a couple hours over sneaker-shredding aa, or lava rock, to witness the spectacle. A couple dozen hikers and I stood half a mile away from where the ominously glowing molten river hit the ocean in an explosion of steam and rock. It was like watching the beating heart of the Big Island: land so new it’s still in the process of creation. Indeed, Kilauea has been erupting continuously since 1983.

Earlier that day, I’d sat on the cliffs overlooking the rocky shore at South Point, the southernmost spot in the United States and thought to be the place where the first Polynesians landed on the Hawaiian chain, about 1,600 years ago. I tried to imagine how those first settlers, after a 2,300-mile voyage from the Marquesas, saw the island: its green- and black-sand beaches, fuming volcanoes, dense, highland forests, snow-covered mountaintops, and lush, windward valleys.

Since the Big Island is the original Hawaiian homeland, it’s where many of the gods, goddesses, and demigods live and are revered even today. It seems there’s not an acre of land that doesn’t have a story and a hefty dose of mana, or spiritual power. I went horseback-riding in the Waipio Valley, on the northeast coast, where Uli, goddess of sorcery, and Nenewe, the evil shark-man, reside. I trekked to the top of 13,796-foot Mauna Kea, past Lake Waiau, where ancient Hawaiians brought the umbilical cords of their children to give them the strength of the mountains. I spent two days hiking a few of the 150-plus miles of trails in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, including a great six-and-a-half-mile hike to the steaming Halemaumau crater, home to Pele, goddess of fire and volcanoes.

Hawaiian myth holds that when the Big Island was being created, Pele and her lover, Kamapuaa (the pig god), quarreled, and in the split they divided the island. The pig god took the rainier windward side, while Pele got hot and dry Kona, on the west coast. But the fact that Mauna Loa and Kilauea are still active is evidence that Pele hasn’t gotten over the breakup. Fortunately, she can be bribed. Gifts of leis or bottles of booze are offered at Halemaumau, and locals around Puna will tell you in all earnestness that if you see an old lady hitchhiking near a volcano, give her a lift: She could be Pele in disguise.

While there are plenty of mana-free things to do on the Big Island—snorkeling and scuba diving in Kealakekua Bay, on the Kona coast; swimming with manta rays; sportfishing for marlin, swordfish, and tuna; whale watching off Kona; mountain-biking the upcountry ranch land outside of Waimea—I always find myself drawn to those places that connect the old Hawaii with the new.

Which brings me back to my dilemma on the aa path near the Kilauea flow. To show proper obeisance when encountering Night Marchers, it is customary to remove all clothes and lie facedown until they pass. Before I could oblige, however, they emerged from the mist: five Japanese teenagers in matching rock-tour T-shirts, armed with flashlights. Seeing my shocked expression, they giggled nervously and moved on. A few minutes later, I stumbled on the sharp rock and gashed my leg. As I limped in the dark, back to where I’d left my car, I began to wonder if those Japanese kids weren’t Night Marchers in disguise who’d cursed me for not showing the proper respect.

On the Big Island, you never know.

Access & Resources
Hole Up: Waianuhea, near the northeastern town of Honokaa, is a stunning five-room, off-the-grid B&B, 15 minutes inland from the Hamakua Coast. It’s the perfect base for exploring the Waipio Valley and the up-country ranch town of Waimea. Doubles from $190; 888-775-2577, » In Kona, on the island’s sunny west coast, is the Sheraton Keauhou Bay Resort & Spa, with 500-plus rooms on 22 oceanfront acres, plus meandering pools, grottoes, and water slides. Doubles from $169; 808-930-4900, » Just outside Hawaii Volcanoes National Park in the southeast, Volcano Rainforest Retreat has four cedar and redwood cottages and three hot tubs—perfect after a day spent wandering the lava flows and craters. In addition to boning up on volcanology, you can get an in-cottage shiatsu massage. Doubles from $125; 800-550-8696,

Dine: Tex Drive In, on Highway 19 in Honokaa, specializes in addictive fried pastries called malasadas—try the pineapple-and-papaya filling. 808-775-0598, » If Hawaiian doughnuts don’t cut it, the French-Asian Daniel Thiebaut Restaurant, in Waimea, is one of the top-rated eateries in the United States. Don’t miss the Asian crab–crusted mahi-mahi with sweet-chili butter sauce. 808-887-2200, » Kaaloa’s Super J’s take-out, on Highway 11 in Honaunau, serves true-blue Hawaiian dishes like kalua pig and lomi salmon. 808-328-9566

Get Out: Swim offshore with gentle manta rays and guide James Wing, the original manta man. Wing is known for his encyclopedic knowledge of manta behavior and for providing close encounters. From $75; 808-987-8660, » Captain Ron, of Kailua-Kona–based Coral Reef Divers, will run you up the coast to dive sites like Pyramid Pinnacle and Golden Arches. Two-tank dive, $95; 808-987-1584, » You’ll need at least two days to explore the Kilauea Caldera and the 150-plus miles of hiking trails in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park; call the eruption hotline for details on Kilauea’s lava flow. 808-985-6000, » Hawaii Forest & Trail leads driving excursions and guided hikes to the ever-changing lava flow. $145; 800-464-1993, » Ahalanui Beach Park—on the Puna coast, south of Hilo—features a 90-degree spring-fed geothermic pool. 808-961-8311 » At the bottom of a steep, switchbacking road on the northeast coast, lush Waipio Valley is perfect for hiking, riding horses, and exploring the black-sand beach. Ride the rim with Waipio Ridge Stables before venturing to a waterfall in the rainforest. $145; 877-757-1414,

Shop: Mid-Pacific Store, in Hilo, sells vintage aloha shirts, kimonos, and muumuus. 808-935-3822 » Coffee connoisseurs know that Kona coffee is a smooth, subtle, light-to-medium bean originally from Guatemala. Get your fix on a plantation tour at Kona Blue Sky Coffee, in Holualoa—it’s one of the few places that offer 100 percent Kona beans. 877-322-1700,

Luxe Outpost

Mellow never had it so good

Lanai

Going nowhere fast: fat-tire riding, Lanai

I WAS IN THE GARDEN OF THE GODS at twilight when the feeling first came over me. From Lanai’s only town, I had driven half an hour north on a single-lane dirt road to this otherworldly plateau of red dust, pinnacles, and encrusted lava. I turned off the engine of the jeep but left the radio blaring rock from a Big Island station. Walking away from the car—at just the point where the trade winds began to drown out the electric guitar—I felt suddenly and deliriously alone.

Like many city dwellers, I fantasize about being stranded on a Pacific island. I read Robinson Crusoe as a kid and saw Cast Away the day it opened, but I’d never experienced the exquisite ache of loneliness that a shipwreck survivor might feel until that moment, standing at the northern edge of Lanai and looking out at the darkening ocean. Of course, this was an illusion. When I turned around, my jeep was there, with the Stone Temple Pilots singing an anthem to modern-day alienation. But all was not lost: I was still on Lanai.

Shaped like a teardrop, 18 miles long, and only 13 miles across at its widest point, Lanai has retained a sense of splendid seclusion. No theme-park resorts here. In fact, since the island was once used for growing pineapples and cattle ranching—and 98 percent of it is owned by a single real estate holding—development has been kept to a minimum. Lanai City, with a population of just 3,000, is tightly contained in less than four square miles and still looks like the 1920s pineapple-plantation village it used to be. About half of the island’s coast is sheer cliff against ocean, and most of the land is arid—red dirt and low grass. There are less than three dozen miles of paved road, not a single mile of which runs along the coastline; nearly all shore access is by jeep trail, hiking, or rappelling. From almost any place on the island, I had to walk only 15 minutes and I could be deep in my thousands-of-miles-from-civilization reverie.

The illusion of utter isolation is a delicacy, but like ordering blowfish at a sushi bar, it’s one you want carefully served with the poison excised. Which is to say that the thrill of feeling stranded can sometimes lead to restlessness if you don’t have an ultra-luxe hotel to head back to at the end of the day.

Fortunately, Lanai has two such retreats. The low, Mediterranean-style buildings of the Manele Bay Hotel are terraced into a hillside next to the island’s nicest strand, Hulopoe Beach. The most decadent suites—outfitted with four-poster beds—come with butler service, so I wasn’t surprised to learn that, back in the early nineties, Bill Gates had rented the entire place for his wedding. Ten miles away, close to town, the Lodge at Koele, with its old-world hunting-estate decor, is an oddity in Hawaii. Because it’s situated at 1,700 feet in the island’s center, breezes are often cool enough to warrant use of the lobby’s wood-burning fireplace. Both resorts have golf courses that are so well manicured and cleverly designed, with ocean backdrops and island greens, that they look like the virtual landscapes in a golf video game.

What I like best about Lanai is that it manages a perfect balance between what there is to do and what there isn’t. Sure, you can hook up with scuba and fishing charters, sample world-class snorkeling off Shipwreck Beach (so named because a World War II Liberty Ship rusts on the reef), sea-kayak with pods of spinner dolphins in Kaunolu Bay, mountain-bike down the Munro Trail, and ride horses above Maunalei Gulch. But karaoke nightclubs and beachfront bacchanalias? If you use party as a verb, this is not your island.

In the end, your choices come down to a happily manageable handful: Should I play croquet or visit the sporting-clay facility to blow some plates out of the sky? Should I take a jeep down that dirt road or rent a mountain bike and go exploring? Should I get the alii banana-and-coconut scrub or the ki pola hoolu ti leaf wrap?

Still want more? Take your day planner and head for Maui.

Access & Resources
Hole Up: The 249-room, Mediterranean-style Manele Bay Hotel is the only resort on the water. Its spacious rooms open onto garden courtyards or overlook Hulopoe Beach, the island’s best. Doubles from $400; 800-450-3704, » If you’re into fetishizing the lifestyle of English lords and ladies, the 102-room Lodge at Koele, just north of Lanai City, is perfection. The largest wooden structure in the islands, it’s modeled after old English hunting lodges, with a full croquet course and pros to teach you the game. Doubles from $400; 800-450-3704, » The oldest and most low-key of the island’s accommodations is the 11-room Hotel Lanai, on the edge of Lanai City. Built by pineapple king James Dole in 1923 to house his execs, the plantation-style rooms have a warm charm. Doubles from $105; 877-665-2624,

Dine: The Blue Ginger Café; is a casual local favorite just across the street from Dole Park, in the center of Lanai City. Eat there two days in a row and you’re likely to see the same friendly faces. 808-565-6363 » Henry Clay’s Rotisserie, in the Hotel Lanai, serves hearty New Orleans fare at moderate prices. The small bar here is one of the few places where locals and visitors mingle. 877-665-2624

Get Out: Trilogy Ocean Sports Lanai is the catchall guiding service on the island. It leads catamaran-supported scuba dives to the walls and reefs below Lanai’s rocky shores, rents jeeps to explore the island’s mostly dirt roads, and arranges guided four-wheel-drive expeditions if you don’t want to go it alone. Prices vary; 888-628-4800, » Thanks to the cliffs that cover nearly half of Lanai’s 47-mile coastline, access to many beaches requires a hike or four-wheel drive. There is one notable exception: Hulopoe Beach, at the south end of Route 440, is not only car-accessible; it’s continually rated as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. On the west end of the beach, the Manele Bay Hotel keeps a stash of snorkel equipment in a kiosk for its guests. » Blast a couple of clay pigeons at the Lodge at Koele’s sport-shooting facility. $150 for 100 rounds; 808-559-4600,

Shop: The Heart of Lanai art gallery sells island paintings by local artists and custom-made ukuleles. 888-565-7815

Real Aloha

Your ticket to the land of big cliffs and big hearts

MOLOKAI IS THE WILDEST and most mysterious of the Hawaiian Islands—sparsely settled, sporadically visited, fiercely independent, and protected by the world’s highest sea cliffs. There are no stoplights here; in fact, with Big Pineapple long gone and Big Condo not quite arrived, there are hardly any lights at all. Viewed at night from nearby Maui, Molokai looms like a wary hulk guarding a secret. And it is—Molokai is the Hawaii that used to be.

Molokai’s only real town, Kaunakakai, is three blocks long. The shops’ floorboards creak with age, but the place has a funky charm—it’s where the Joads would have washed up if they’d put in to the Pacific and had better luck. My first night “downtown,” locals were gathered in front of the library, talking in pidgin and English and cheering wildly when guitarist Zack Helm and his daughter, Raiatea, lit up the night with traditional Hawaiian songs. I was the odd white face in a sea of Filipino, Japanese, and Polynesian blood, but people greeted me with smiles and nods.

Molokai is called the Friendly Isle, but that’s overly simplistic. Perhaps it’s more accurate to call it the most Hawaiian of the major islands—almost half its 7,000 inhabitants are natives, and the island is known for the virtue of ohana, or family. “If you want to make a lot of money, go to Oahu,” a Molokai resident named Joe Kalipi told me. “Here, you judge a man by his aloha spirit. You judge him by his heart.”

Wander into a homey little roadside cookhouse, lured by visions of guava-sauce ribs and a cold beer, only to discover that it doesn’t have an alcohol license? Not to worry. The waiter will likely offer you the last frosty Bud from his personal stash. And because there are far fewer people to crowd the beaches of Molokai, you won’t find any of the competitive surf vibes of the other islands. The day I boogie-boarded off Kepuhi Beach, a popular swimming and surfing spot on the west side, three young locals paddled over to warn me away from hidden rocks and suggested I’d get better rides if I moved up on my board.

All this packed into an island 38 miles long and ten wide. Though it’s the second smallest of the major Hawaiian islands, Molokai’s sheer wildness and diversity is unparalleled. The rainforest atop its steep northern shore receives nearly 160 inches of precipitation annually. Laau Point, a few miles west, gets fewer than ten inches. Try making that transition on a mountain bike: Start atop a 2,000-foot cliff that drops straight into the Pacific and finish by hurtling to the sea along red-desert singletrack so thrilling it explains why Molokai is called Mini-Moab.

For an offshore perspective, sea-kayak the south coast, which is protected by the state’s longest barrier reef, stretching almost the entire length of the island’s southern side. Stuff a picnic lunch and snorkeling gear into your pack and find a perfect white-sand beach, like three-mile Papohaku (the state’s longest), to call your own.

After all, you’ve come to Molokai to be alone. Up in the high country there are at least a dozen forested hiking trails you’ll almost surely have to yourself. (Beware, however, that some cross private property and can’t be accessed without a local guide.) All are dramatic, but my favorite is the cliff-face descent via 26 posted switchbacks into the leper colony at Kalaupapa, on the island’s north shore, a setting so spectacular—with a story of such tragedy and courage—that it inspired the likes of Robert Louis Stevenson and Jack London.

Spectacular, isolated, ignored, unique: This is Molokai. The island’s residents prefer it that way. They might mumble something about too many visitors, but the next thing you know, they’re inviting you home for dinner, giving you their last beer, or helping you catch a wave. Now that’s a friendly isle.

Access & Resources
Hole Up: Relaxed but lively, the Polynesian-style Hotel Molokai has 47 thatch-roofed rooms and an ocean-view restaurant and bar that attracts visitors and locals alike. Doubles from $90; 800-535-0085, » The Lodge at Molokai Ranch—the island’s only resort—is a gorgeous plantation-style estate with 22 rooms on 65,000 acres on the western third of the island. Doubles from $280; 888-627-8082,

Dine: Molokai isn’t known for haute cuisine, but you can eat cheaply and well; ribs and fresh fish are the island specialties. Good bets are Kualapuu Cookhouse (808-567-9655) and the Molokai Pizza Café; (808-553-3288), in Kaunakakai. » Stanley’s Coffee Shop, on Puali Street, in Kaunakakai, has Internet access and espresso. 808-553-9966 » The Neighborhood Store and Counter, on the Kamehameha Highway, will sell you a Japanese-style box lunch for a day trip to the remote eastern beaches. 808-558-8498

Get Out: Hook up with Damien Tours for the 3.1-mile trek down the treacherously steep Pali Trail to the Kalaupapa leper colony, a national historic site that’s still home to 35 people. At the bottom, board the bus driven by Richard Marks—a wry resident and a fierce advocate for the victims of the widely misunderstood disease. $40; 808-567-6171 » Mountain-bike with Activities Maunaloa on the world-class singletrack at the Lodge at Molokai Ranch. Head guide and native son Kawika Puaa leads half-day rides through the wildly varied terrain, from muddy rainforest to hardpack desert. $45; 808-552-0184 » For fishing, scuba diving, and one of the few available tours of the spectacular north shore (accessible only by boat), Walter Naki, of Molokai Action ºÚÁϳԹÏÍøs, is your man. $100; 808-558-8184

Shop: The Plantation Gallery, on Maunaloa’s main drag, has the best beads and trinkets on Molokai—and maybe in the whole state. Check out its sister shop, the Big Wind Kite Factory, next door. 808-552-2364, ,

Blue Diamond

North Shore surf plus Honolulu nightlife—proof that you can have it all

I GET IRRITATED WHEN PEOPLE disrespect Oahu—letting you know, smugly, that when they travel to Hawaii, all they do in Honolulu is catch a flight to one of the “other islands.” The rap is that Oahu is too urban, too touristy, too whatever. The great abomination is supposedly Waikiki, the 1.5-mile-long resort-and-beach strip just east of downtown Honolulu whose loud garishness represents everything modern island travelers think they ought to avoid.

These gripes miss a larger truth: Oahu’s many parts, both kitschy and genuine, come together to form a wonderful whole. There’s more than enough nature, outdoor sports, beaches, mountains, and solitude to please anyone, and Oahu’s urban life is a strength, not a weakness. Honolulu and Waikiki are a blast, home to classic luxury hotels (my wife, Susan, and I stayed at the fabulous Royal Hawaiian, called “the pink palace of the Pacific” for its Pepto-Bismol–colored stucco coat), rich history, beautiful public spaces, cool bars, and friendly people. Waikiki’s beachfront nightlife connects you to a magical past, when honeymooners wiggled toes in its sands and Hawaii Calls—a globally syndicated radio program broadcast from the Banyan Courtyard, at the Moana Hotel—sent out a musical aloha every Saturday night.

Today, Honolulu and Waikiki hum with Pacific Rim energy, and you can have plenty of fun just sunning, bodysurfing, strolling, shopping, and watching the limo-powered migrations of Japanese wedding parties. I especially liked the Ala Moana Center—a mall with an entire store devoted to ukuleles—and the huge, thrice-weekly flea market at Aloha Stadium. I bought used flippers; Susan picked up a few bushels of inexpensive jewelry and the first in her now alarmingly large collection of carved tikis. These weren’t mass-produced junk, either, but grimacing, two-foot-tall mini-masterpieces chipped out of monkey pod wood by local craftsmen.

Honolulu residents characterize a trip to the North Shore—where we spent several days at the spiff Turtle Bay Resort, an oceanfront golf-and-luxury spread near the island’s northernmost point—as going to the country. But you can get there in 45 minutes from downtown, so it’s more like going from San Francisco to Stinson Beach. We soon realized we could build busy days around my doing outdoor stuff in the morning, Susan going on urban adventures in the afternoon, and us doing something romantic together at night.

On a typical morning, I would surf (Turtle Bay’s resident pro, Hans Hedemann, taught me the basics), snorkel, or sea-kayak (in Kailua, you can paddle to a pair of offshore islands). Then I’d pick Susan up at lunchtime and we’d floor it to the nearest coconut stand. We’d either explore the North Shore—home to legendary beaches and surf spots like Waimea Bay and Pipeline, as well as Haleiwa, the main town for local hipsters—or we’d head back to the city, usually via the more scenic route on the island’s eastern shore. After a drink with a new pal like Lloyd Kandell—cofounder of Don Tiki, an Oahu-based band that specializes in the “exotica” sounds made popular in the fifties—we’d zoom north and stake out a hot tub at the resort. Our favorite offered a tiki-torch-framed view of Turtle Bay with a surf-powered blowhole going off in the foreground. The full moon came at no extra charge.

The last thing I did in Oahu wasn’t my usual scene: I signed up for a day of sportfishing out of Honolulu’s Kewalo Basin on a boat that, in its time, had landed a 939-pound blue marlin. This wasn’t one of those times, and by 9 a.m. I intuited that the adventure would be defined by eight hours of smelling diesel exhaust and watching hooks drag through the water without result.

Luckily, this was Oahu, so one of the other clients was my kind of boat mate: a spirited, chain-smoking divorcé;e from Los Angeles who made it clear with her friendly chatter that she was determined to have fun. Before long she noticed me sitting in the fighting chair looking glum.

“Were you wanting a beer or anything?” she offered.

I checked the time: 9:30. Yes.

“Kinda. But I didn’t bring any, so—”

“Hey, man,” she rasped, “I brought two six-packs and a bottle of Mr. Boston rum. And I’m not planning on taking any of it back.”

I saw her differently then. She was a sweet goddess, offering the rarest of island nectars. What could I say but mahalo?

Access & Resources
Hole Up: The 387-room Marriott Ihilani Resort and Spa, at Ko Olina, in Kapolei, dominates a cliff-backed spit of sand on Oahu’s west coast. In a full day here, you can snorkel the private lagoon, play 18 holes of golf, and still have time for a spa treatment. Doubles from $370; 808-679-0079, » With five miles of prime North Shore beach, 443 rooms, and two 18-hole golf courses, Turtle Bay Resort offers luxury on a grand scale. Snorkel the bay or take surf lessons with Hans Hedemann, then hit 21 Degrees North for martinis. Doubles from $400; 808-447-6508, » If you yearn for the quiet comforts of life on a Hawaiian beach, try one of the B&Bs available across the island—including the hotel-free eastern side—through Affordable Paradise. Studios from $55; 808-261-1693,

Dine: Chai’s Island Bistro, in downtown Honolulu, has upscale seafood, perfectly mixed cocktails, and a crack waitstaff in an unpretentious environment. 808-585-0011, » North Shore locals swear by Giovanni’s shrimp truck, with its $11 garlic-laden scampis. It’s always parked on the Kamehameha Highway in Kahuku. 808-293-1839 » For the Waikiki experience, try the Mai Tai Bar, at the Royal Hawaiian. Tiki torches, Hawaiian music, and hula dancers complete the vibe. 808-923-7311,

Get Out: Even novice sea kayakers will enjoy the reef-protected islands near Kailua Beach Park. Guide Steve Haumschild, of Kailua Sailboards & Kayaks, will lead you to some good snorkeling and teach you how to boat-surf waves along the way. From $39; 808-262-2555 » Wild Side Specialty Tours provides uncrowded (no more than 16 guests) dolphin- and whale-watching and swimming tours from a 42-foot catamaran off the west coast. From $95; 808-306-7273, » Wake up early and hike a mile and three-quarters to the top of 760-foot Diamond Head volcanic crater for the best view of sunrise over Honolulu and Waikiki. » At Mokuleia’s Dillingham Airfield, Honolulu Soaring offers 15-minute to hourlong rides in an aerobatic glider. You can’t beat the cockpit view, riding updrafts above the North Shore surf. $129–$228; 808-677-3404, » Or try a tandem jump with Skydive Hawaii. $225; 808-637-9700,

Shop: Seek out the talented (and hilariously grumpy) Tongan tiki carver Kini at the International Marketplace on Kalakaua Ave, Waikiki’s main drag. 808-971-2080,

A-List Island

Surfing superstars, media magnates, Hollywood glitterati—and you

Maui

Maui’s bright side

Maui

Just press play: La Perouse Bay, Makena; opposite, Hotel Hana-Maui’s sea-ranch suites

SO HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FEEL when the valet at the Hotel Hana-Maui (which must be the most understatedly elegant, eco-positive hotel on earth, in a genuine rural paradise) smiles and says, “You know, the surf’s so uncrowded around here that I’m usually trying to find people to go with me”? Especially when the guy’s eyes light up as he describes jet-ski trips to breaks so remote that you don’t see a single building, road, or human all day? Or when he freely gives me directions to a nearby beach break and those directions take me past the sleepy old Hasegawa General Store and out toward a barbecue stand with a hand-drawn sign reading LOCAL KIND GRIND?

And sure, I know that Carol Burnett, Jim Nabors, and George Harrison used to live out here in Hana, the easternmost point of the island, and that Kris Kristofferson still does. And I know that the town’s aflutter over Oprah’s recent purchase of more than a hundred acres of undeveloped Hana coast. But somehow the celebrity density only heightens my astonishment that on Maui, of all places, with its Gold Coast resorts and almost hourly jumbo jets, I can drift down a one-lane country road, past white egrets loitering in overgrown pastures among grazing Holsteins, and into a dazed state of tropical rapture.

I awoke yesterday morning in the baroque splendor of the Fairmont Kea Lani—65 miles away on the south shore, among Fantasy Island villas and talk of the Maui film festival and how it had drawn Adrien Brody and Greg Kinnear and Angela Bassett. Then I was whisked by helicopter along the slopes of 10,023-foot Haleakala to watch a 2,000-foot waterfall gush only yards beyond the windshield. I hiked 15 miles and 5,000 feet up into the famed Kaupo Gap, from prickly pear desert through sodden forest and alpine tundra beyond, then into the volcanic moonscape of the giant upper crater, an unearthly world of red ash and cinder cones, bizarre silversword plants, and solidified rivers of black magma.

Cresting a high ridge, I looked down the long, sweeping slopes to funky Paia town, where I’d dawn-patrolled clean-point surf the day before and watched gorgeous, half-naked fitness fanatics drink wheatgrass juice outside Mana Foods, chatting about their late-morning wave sail at windsurfing’s sweetest spot on earth, Hookipa. And those alpha dogs I saw at Anthony’s Coffee Shop? That was Laird Hamilton himself, with his pal Dave Kalama, who together had pioneered tow-in big-wave surfing on the 50-footers right down the road at Jaws—and who were among the first to launch kiteboarding as a sport, at the nearby strand known today as Kite Beach.

And now, not 24 hours later, I’m killing the engine at a red-sand beach with only three surfers in the warm water—two tanned adolescent boys and a teenage girl in a red bikini. Island kids, done with school for the day and frolicking in the world as they know it. There are finer pleasures to come—the full-body spirulina-and-kava spa treatment I’ve scheduled at the hotel and the nine-course tasting menu with wine pairings—but it’s right now, wading out for a sunset surf, that I realize why Maui is the only Hawaiian island named for a demigod. And not just any god, either: Maui was the greatest trickster in Polynesian culture, a sort of South Pacific Paul Bunyan/Odysseus hybrid who fished the Hawaiian islands up from the ocean floor, lifted the sky so people could walk upright, and lengthened the day by climbing to the top of Haleakala and lassoing the sun god.

There’s a genuine delight in this island and in the fact that—among all the high-dollar tourism and great yoga studios and world-famous surfing and movie-star real estate—there exists the paradoxical sense that you’ve finally found the place you’ve always dreamed about, the one beyond the end of the road, where you can leave it all behind and just stay.

Access & Resources
Hole Up: Set amid a 23,000-acre working pineapple plantation on Maui’s northwest shore is the 548-room Ritz-Carlton Kapalua, on white-sand D.T. Fleming Beach, near Honolua Bay, one of the world’s best right-hand surf breaks. Doubles from $365; 800-241-3333, » The Fairmont Kea Lani, on the sunny south side of the island, offers big-resort glam (suites are at least 840 square feet), exceptionally calm water, and a secluded beach. Doubles from $465; 800-257-7544, » Hotel Hana-Maui—47 cottages and 22 bungalow rooms overlooking the ocean—is the only hotel on the remote east coast. Doubles from $395; 800-321-4262,

Dine: The Paia Fish Market restaurant, in the heart of Paia, has your postworkout grilled mahi-mahi, fresh from the sea—just like you. 808-579-8030 » On the western edge of Lahaina and right on the water, Mala offers fresh and organic tapas—like mahi-mahi chermoula and crunchy calamari with aioli. 808-667-9394

Get Out: Latatudes and Attitudes does an all-day heli-hike, starting with whirlybird sightseeing over Haleakala and ending with a 15-mile catered hike from Kaupo Gap through the volcano’s crater (from $2,500). They also offer a four-hour guided waterfall hike in the West Maui Mountains ($75). 877-661-7720, » Visit Hana’s secluded Koki Beach for surfing and relaxing. » Sample Maui’s unrivaled watersports by ogling windsurfers at Hookipa, just beyond Kahalui’s airport, and tow-in surfers riding the monster waves at Jaws, 15 minutes east of Paia (turn left after the cemetery). Or learn to surf with the Nancy Emerson School of Surfing at the beginner-friendly Breakwall in Lahaina. $75 for two hours; 808-244-7873, » The road to Hana—600 curves and 54 one-lane bridges on about 30 miles of cliff- and jungle-edged road—is so unpopulated, you’ll find it hard to believe it’s on glitzy, golfer-inundated Maui. Gas up and take the long way back, along Haleakala’s leeward slope.

Shop: Drop by Hana’s Hasegawa General Store, for a Coke in a glass bottle—and trip out on a bygone world. 808-248-8231

The post Hawaii O-Five appeared first on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø Online.

As a teenage Jack London fan, I fantasized about mushing a dogsled. Grown-up city life derailed my Iditarod dreams until I came across a photograph of someone skijoring: two large, smiling malamutes towing a cross-country skier down a forested trail at breakneck speed. It appeared I could live out my fantasy with a pair of skis, a rope, and a harness.

So I called Dina McClure, founder of the Cascade Skijoring Alliance, in Bend, Oregon, and asked her to teach me.

“Sure,” she said. “What kind of dog will you be working with?”

Ella, my co-worker’s 50-pound mutt, was sleeping upside down behind my desk, her legs immodestly splayed. She’s two years old, doesn’t retrieve sticks, rarely comes when called, and has never seen snow.

“I’ll be bringing Ella.”

“And what breed is Ella?”

“Well,” I said, “she’s brown.”

Ella and I meet McClure at the Ray Benson Snow Park, off U.S. 20 on Santiam Pass in Oregon’s Willamette National Forest. Rosy-cheeked and 44 years old, McClure switched from dogsledding to “ski driving” seven years ago after she retired some dogs and decided two canines would be easier to keep than a dozen. She’s seen her club expand to 70 members.

After fitting the harness, McClure instructs me to run Ella a few hundred yards through the snow, keeping some tension on the line. No problem. Next, McClure clips a trailer tire to Ella’s harness with the idea that I’ll run ahead of her and she’ll drag the tire. The exercise immediately goes awry—Ella freaks out and bolts, surmising that the tire is actually chasing her.

We give Ella a break so McClure can show me the sport for real. Her Alaskan huskies, Bailey and Tyler, look nothing like the pooches in the picture I saw. Like coyotes, they’re fairly small, with rough coats, reddish eyes, and narrow snouts. They remind me of the type of beast that might chase me through the frozen woods until I collapse and beg for death to come.

McClure explains that larger dogs, like the happy malamutes, are best for pulling heavy loads; smaller dogs excel in four- to seven-mile races. Attached to her dogs by a waist harness and an eight-foot towrope connected to a bungee cord, McClure hunkers down to lower her wind resistance and center of gravity, calls out “Let’s go!” and takes off with the acceleration of a water-skier behind a jet boat. Ella barks excitedly at the sight.

Next, for the full-blown try, McClure clips me to Ella, skis 50 yards ahead on the groomed trail, and calls to my furry steed. Perhaps accessing a genetic memory of the task, Ella bounds toward McClure—stretching the bungee line with remarkable force. I push with my poles and we’re off, Ella pulling me along at a jogger’s clip. I would like to tell you that the moment fulfills my fantasy: speeding through winter landscape, a man and his dog. But the truth is, I’m focusing all my concentration on staying upright. I nearly run over my teacher while trying to stop.

“She could be a great skijoring dog,” says McClure, genuinely impressed with Ella.

My partner jumps around, seeming to understand that she is the teacher’s pet. I’m on my knees in the snow trying to catch my breath. After giving Ella a treat, McClure turns to me with one final instruction: “You,” she points out, “could use some cross-country skiing practice.”

The post Skijoring: A One-Dog Open Sleigh appeared first on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø Online.

I’ll tell you right up front: Before my first lesson I had doubts that “piloting” was the right verb to describe flying a balloon. Sure, I knew you could make the thing go up and down—but the word “piloting” implies control over a craft on more than one axis of our three-dimensional world. I suspected “ballasting” might be more appropriate, as in “He did a great job ballasting that balloon over the mountain.”

I don’t admit this preconception to my Balloon Excelsior instructor, Brent Stockwell, as we drive from the Oakland offices to California’s Central Valley for my first lesson. It’s not that I’m afraid of offending him but, having woken up at 3 a.m., I’m having trouble forming coherent sentences of any sort. Here is the cruelest fact of ballooning: The wind is calmest at dawn, and calm wind makes for good, safe flights. If you like to sleep in while on vacation, cross ballooning school off your list.
At 68 years old, Stockwell is fit and full of energy. As he drives 70 miles per hour through the still-dark morning, he reads me the liability waver. I accept the risk of being burned alive or plummeting thousands of feet to my death; I also, apparently, accept the risk of being burned alive while plummeting thousands of feet to my death. The only thing that scares me right now is Stockwell’s penchant for multi-tasking. I’m sure it would take a team of lawyers to figure out whether this liability waiver applies if Stockwell drives off the road while reading it.


An hour later we arrive at a football field in the small town of Patterson. This is not the usual location for a lesson, but Stockwell has given me the option of taking my first flight alongside a half-dozen other balloons as part of Patterson’s Apricot Fiesta, and I can’t resist. The sky is finally light as we unload on the 50-yard line. Stockwell looks at the treetops to take a final gauge of the winds; seven miles per hour or more means a scrubbed flight, but this morning couldn’t be calmer. A couple of balloons have already lifted off and are drifting lethargically overhead.


As we make our preparations, I’m a bit conflicted about Stockwell’s manner of teaching. He is a very precise man, with checklists for his checklists, and he’s picky about everything, including the language of ballooning: “Balloons are not tethered to the ground. Animals are tethered—balloons are moored.” His is not a touchy-feely teaching style, more a military one. But given that we are going to be flying thousands of feet above the hard ground in this apparatus, I guess I prefer to have a stickler for details as my pilot/instructor. No doubt I will be more nervous than I already am if Stockwell had a New Age attitude toward this lesson. (“Well, Ethan, I usually put that linchpin in the other way, but let’s try it your way this time.”)

One of the appealing things about ballooning school (and ballooning in general) is that no matter how many checklists you have, the process of getting into the air is pretty simple and quick: With only five lessons and eight to ten hours of flight, you can qualify for a pilot’s license. Stockwell blows up the ripstop nylon “envelope” with a powerful fan that inflates it into the shape of a beached whale, and then uses the propane heater to put it all the way up. When we get into the basket, he hits the heater a couple more times and we begin to rise gently. A small crowd of Pattersonians gives a sleepy cheer as we drift southward toward the end zone. We clear the goalposts with ease and this humble farming town, with its tract homes and orchards, is revealed to us.


About 200 feet off the ground, Stockwell lets me take over the controls, or I should say control, since there is only really one switch to hit: the brass valve handle that fires the propane burner. Stockwell teaches me the “standard burn,” which entails opening the flame full-throttle for a count of five seconds. After that you wait a bit to see how the balloon will react, because it takes up to half a minute for the hot air you just created to rise to the top of the envelope, where it provides its full lift. As Stockwell gives me the basics of using the burner, I’m distracted by a couple of disconcerting things I’ve noticed about balloon flight. The first is that the railing of the wicker basket seems too low for a man of my height—six feet. Several inches lower than a standard balustrade, the top of the basket hits me mid-butt, leaving the majority of my body weight above the only barrier between me and a quick trip to the top of someone’s carport. If I were to move backward in the basket quickly, it seems to me that the railing would trip me rather than catch me.
The other thing I’ve noticed is that the reptilian portion of my brain is sending a very loud message to the more highly evolved, analytical part: “HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO GET DOWN FROM HERE?” No use trying to explain physics to a lizard. Once the adrenaline subsides, I realize that this tension is one of the joys of balloon flight. Since the landing, by necessity, comes at the end, there is a lingering suspense to the whole trip. While you can enjoy the ride, you’ll always wondering what the final moment will hold.


“Give me two standard burns,” instructs Stockwell, “and let’s see if we can’t go back to where we started.” I do as he says, and after a rise of another couple hundred feet I discover that we are indeed headed directly back toward the football field. Stockwell explains that on a calm day like this one, an observant and experienced pilot (I realize now that they deserve this title) can find, at different altitudes, gentle wisps of wind moving in almost every direction of the compass. So how do you know which way the wind is blowing at different altitudes?


Well, to check the air currents above, you can release “pi-balls,” basic party balloons filled with helium. To find out what’s going on under the balloon, you spit. To be a really good balloon pilot, in fact, you have to learn how to form a spitball big enough to be seen for a couple thousand feet. Here’s what I learned: Snot-filled loogies fall too quickly to be of much use. What you really want is a puffy white ball a half-inch in diameter and formed of equal parts saliva and air bubbles. This is best created by squishing the fluid in your mouth rapidly back and forth through your front teeth. Actually, you don’t have to be in a balloon to practice this skill—you can do it anywhere. You can, for instance, try it right now as you are reading this article. Go ahead, see if you have the right stuff.

Useful as it is, I must say having a reason to spit off the balloon deeply appeals to my inner teenager. Watching me form one perfect spitball after another, Stockwell concedes that I am a natural at this aspect of ballooning, maybe the best he’s ever seen. Then he suggests I’m so good that I could stop practicing. Stockwell hints that in a pinch other bodily fluids might be used to learn wind direction. These methods are only taught in advanced classes, however, and are not recommended in populated areas with a high percentage of resident rifle ownership.


The other piloting skill I excel at is waving. According to Stockwell, waving to those you fly over is both the sacred duty of a balloon pilot and a way of engendering goodwill, for you never know whose back field you may someday have to land in. As we fly over Patterson this aspect of the sport takes up the majority of our time, which is not a problem because there is not much else to do. Here’s some advice on waving so you’ll be ahead of the game if you ever find yourself in a balloon. Always remember that the lowly people on the ground know they are waving at you, but they don’t know that you are waving at them specifically. Because of this possible confusion, it helps if you match the style of someone’s wave so that the person on the ground understands you’re communicating just with him or her.
So when the woman walking her dog in her nightgown fires us the old screw-in-the-lightbulb wave, I fire that right back at her. When a kid on a trampoline gives me a left-handed-window-washer, I do that too. There’s a caution here, unless you are extremely comfortable in a balloon basket (see “railing height” as mentioned earlier): Be careful not to mimic someone jumping up and down and waving wildly with both hands. Also, be aware that sound travels downward very efficiently, so don’t, as you smile and wave, say something like, “Look at those poor white-trash sons of bitches drinking beer in their backyards,” as the people below are likely to get a mixed message.


After about an hour we feel that we have given the people of Patterson a good enough show, and we find a current of breeze that takes us south toward the local airport. Stockwell has a friendly bet with another balloon pilot that he can land closer to a triangle of grass between two runways. ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø of town we do a little bit of “contour flying”, which means skimming along the ground and over trees. I am not very good at this, because with the delayed reaction of the balloon to the burns, I tend to panic, fire the burner too long, and send us in big looping arcs over the farmland. Stockwell takes over at the end to try to best his friend, who has already landed 50 yards off the mark. The draft at 100 feet that Stockwell has expected would swing us to the right doesn’t materialize, and we fly left of the target, coming in second in a competition of two. Instead of landing on the grassy field, we hit, harder than Stockwell would have liked, on the tarmac of the airstrip.


Stockwell unleashes a Tourettes-like torrent of curses as we sand a quarter-inch off the bottom of the basket, dragging for ten yards before coming to a stop. He cools down the balloon, and concedes that any landing you walk away from is a good landing. As we wait for our ground crew to find us, he puts me to work rolling up the envelope. Halfway through, he alerts me to a group of farm workers driving by and reminds me of the first rule of ballooning.


“Wave at ’em,” Stockwell insists. “You never know when they’re going to rescue your ass.”


Getting There

With only eight to ten hours of flight time necessary for an airman certificate, you too can learn to avoid electric wires with the best of them. Balloon Excelsior can have you flying solo and ready to pass your knowledge and flight tests in about a week (in clear summer weather—count on two weeks in winter). Established in 1969, Balloon Excelsior is the oldest FAA-approved balloon school in the United States. The tuition of $2,100 gets you up to ten flights, depending on how fast you learn. A one-hour lesson costs $300. Contact: 51.261.4222; www.hot-airballoons.com/excelsior

The post Vertigo Rising appeared first on ºÚÁϳԹÏÍø Online.